


get it out

by orphan_account



Category: Eddsworld - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, NOT EDITED AT ALL LMAO, but if someone likes it thats wonderful!!!, ended up being too shy to post on main account, im trying to be less of a perfectionist haha, paintball using real guns, this was just for practice mostly, wrote this at two in the morning forgive me ToT
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:07:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27955121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: eddsworld oneshot. inspired by a tumblr prompt. tom unknowingly follows tord into a game of paintball using real guns and tord helps him survive
Relationships: Tom/Tord (Eddsworld)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 27





	get it out

Long rectangular office lights flicker on and off, rhythmically, as though they were on a timer. The mildly stained, probably thirty year old carpet reeks of fresh flowers and blood. The windows are barred and boarded with wooden planks underneath to cap off on the over-the-topness of it all. 

The AC shuts down in a series of sputters and moans and all is starkly quiet except for Tom's muffled breaths and the faint footsteps of their assailant. Tom's doing his best to conceal any presence of himself but he's, admittedly, seen better days for this sneaky ninja call of duty bullshit. His wrist is probably broken, check one off on the bucket list there, tied together with a jury-rigged splint comprised of his tie and three pencils. Tord's hand covers his mouth to keep him from crying out in pain, and in any other situation he'd bite the fingers away, kick the man in the groin, and call him a few choice slurs, the majority of which would be related to communism or anime in one way or another, some more creative than others. But, at the moment, Tord is all he has to rely on. An unexpected bastion of hope for survival in a situation Tom never could've imagined playing out in anything other than shitty comic-book television. 

A figure stalks through the room, clearing corners and checking the obvious spots. Dear Jesus God and whatever the fuck else, Tom prays they won't be found. He and Tord crawl hunched together, weaving in and out of cubicles. Tord directs them around the room in a dance of keep-away, following at a distance behind the other player to avoid their path. In an amount of time that feels like eons but could be more accurately described as ten or so minutes, the figure recedes, exiting the room, on a warpath. Whistling, too, what a maniac. Tord drags Tom into one of the corner cubicles, grip tight. 

"Tom," Tord whispers in his ear, warm and steady. Unafraid. "You suck." 

Tom writhes in his grasp, but Tord continues. "Whatever you think, you put yourself in this mess."

Gunshots ring in the distance. Someone screams. "I don't want to help you. But I will." 

They don't have time for a reluctant savior speech right now. Tom shifts, just slightly, staring Tord dead in the eye, hoping to get the message across. Tord glares back at him, nose red from the chill, irises grey like a storm, and Tom can't take a single guess at what he's thinking of.

Tord sighs. "Here is the plan. You follow behind me. Stick to the wall, crouch. I will cover you, keep us safe." 

And Tom can't really argue with that. He'd prefer to grab a weapon ( like an AK-47 or something and _no_ that's not the only gun name he knows) and blast his way through this mess but he doesn't have a weapon and this isn't exactly the kind of mess that's easy to blast your way out of. He knows that much at least, stupid as he may be. 

He nods, and Tord lets him go, patting him on the head like he's a fricking dog.

"When we're out of here, you're dead," Tom snarls. Tord rolls his eyes. 

"Already am," he replies, like an edgy bastard. He shrugs off his stupid black trench coat, revealing a strap of bullets wrapped around his chest as well as some muscle definition Tom's surprised to see, and hands the grease-drenched article of clothing to Tom. 

"Wear it. Good camouflage." Tom doesn't want to wear it, even if he's maybe always (very) secretly thought he'd look cool with it on.

"They'll smell me a kilometer away." 

"Everyone already smelled you sneaking in, but they were too polite to say anything." 

"Yeah, the black-market maniacs playing paintball with real guns were too polite to let me know I smelled." 

Tord scoots forward, hair curled like devil horns casting long shadows over his face. "Do you think I'm a maniac, Tom?" 

They're close enough to share body heat. Dark circles line Tord's eyes. His skin is oily, shirt ruffled. Tom feels himself gravitating closer, almost wanting to reach out, like he could touch--

He wants to say Tord is crazy. But he isn't any better. 

"Like I know." He grabs the coat, heavy and worn. "Shit, I shouldn't have followed you here." 

"No. You should not have. Put it on." His voice is unwavering. He is at home here, in this place of danger. He is strong. 

Wildly unequipped for just about anything happening, Tom defers to one of his two coping mechanisms, alcohol and poor attempts at humor. "Any chance we'll get to put together some kind of makeshift bomb and walk away from an explosion looking cool as fuck?" 

Tord scoffs, but a small smile creeps onto his face. "Maybe next time." 

Tom shrugs the coat on, struggling with his broken wrist. Tord stops him, tying the empty sleeve around his arm like a sling. He sighs, then squares his shoulders, hardening.

"We have to go."

"Sooner the better," Tom agrees. He grabs a stapler. Not as awesome as Tord's gun but he'll take it. 

"Oh, Tom. One more thing. Don't staple me." 

Tord grabs him by the flaps of his collar and tugs him in for a kiss, sharp and quick, bearing into his body, chest to chest. It's a kiss that feels like adrenaline, like the thrill of risking your life for something dumb, like doing something stupid just because you can.

"Always wanted to kiss someone in the heat of the moment, but I was always alone here, you know how it is.... Thanks for being my test dummy," Tord says, like a dumbass. 

Tom's heart beats fast in his chest and if he lives to tomorrow he'll hate this memory but right now, with that stupid crooked smile in front of him and the wall to his back, stapler in one hand and nothing in the other because it's fucking broken, he thinks he almost enjoys this. 


End file.
